


Operation Coda

by Shine (qshineq)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, M/M, Painful Sex, Sexual Content, Unequal Power Relationship (Rank-Based), War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-01-18 17:24:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21280472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qshineq/pseuds/Shine
Summary: Placed under the care of a superior officer with the rare capability to end the war, Trowa is forced to participate seriously in a conflict he cared nothing about if only to fulfill the ambitions of the one he discovers is worth fighting for.
Relationships: Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner
Kudos: 14





	1. Fourth Platoon

It was his third reassignment within the year, one short of last year when they just altogether forgot he was part of the squad. He fought in a war he didn’t believe in, one that had been going on even before he’d been born. Forced into the military, he supposed it wasn’t tragic since every child had that to look forward to no matter their social standing. Even a prince had to start by crawling through the mud under a chicken wire. There were just not that many people around to fight. 

“Private Barton, you are to report at oh eight hundred hours to the fourth platoon.” 

A salute. “Yes, ma’am.” 

He might as well have been a mercenary since he didn’t care for either side or sides, depending on how you looked at it. He was on the side he was born into as most people were. The other side was simply ‘the other side.’ What were they fighting for again? Perhaps even the higher-ups didn’t know anymore. 

At oh eight hundred hours, he was inside a tent with about seven other people, which he figured was a bit small for a platoon. His last squad had been bigger than this. He looked around. One woman, six men. Too many men. It was the anomaly of the times. They just weren’t giving birth to enough women, hence, the depopulation problem. 

“Attention.” 

Like reflex, he was chin up, chest out, shoulders back and stomach in. 

“At ease.” A dismissive hand was lazily waved at them. A captain. A very young captain followed closely behind and slightly to the left by a much stiffer, just as young first lieutenant. 

“Captain Winner,” the officer introduced himself, standing in front of the group with a straight spine and hands behind his back. “and next to me is First Lieutenant Chang.” Introductions followed around the room, each one stating their rank and name pro forma. It was done in an instant. 

“The first order of business is a pop quiz,” the captain said when they’d finished. Somebody dared to tsk. “Sit down.” 

Trowa took a seat on the closest empty armchair of which there were at least twenty inside the tent. The lieutenant dutifully dropped stacks of papers and a blunt pencil on each of their desks. He didn’t say a word. 

The captain took a seat at the front facing them, just like a teacher would during an exam. He leaned back on his seat and put crossed feet up on the table. Trowa watched him observe the group, taking his features to memory. Short, blond, pretty eyes. Built like the little princes in fairytales being screamed at while doing pull-ups. Eventually, their eyes met, but Trowa didn’t look away. Big mistake. 

“You have exams to finish, soldier.” The lieutenant was at his side, finally speaking. He was just as short as the captain, but much more built, much stronger looking. His jet-black hair, which was painfully tied in a ponytail behind his head, made him look stricter. 

“Yes, sir,” Trowa responded before putting his head down to look at the test paper. In that same instant, he heard a chirpy voice say ‘done’, approaching the captain after he’d been given permission. Trowa dared to look up once again. That was a little too fast. 

The overachiever, the same one that had dared to tsk in the beginning, smiled a satisfied one, the remnant of his movement leaving his long, braided hair to swing behind his back. The captain didn’t even look at his test. Instead, he placed his hands on top of his stomach and entwined his fingers, still pushing backwards against the back legs of his chair. It creaked in warning. 

“Hair. Cut by the time I see you tomorrow at oh seven hundred hours, Maxwell.” 

Maxwell frowned, as any would, considering how long it must have taken to grow. Trowa presumed a defiance there, a fight he’d win. After all, how did the hair get that long throughout military academy and boot camp without a good fight, without convincing words? The hair might have had a sentimental cause. Would Maxwell win this? 

The answer was, surprisingly, no, because Maxwell didn’t even put up a proper fight. 

“Yes, sir,” he responded with a salute. Trowa dropped his head down in disappointment. The captain nodded and waved him off before he was back in his seat and the rest continued with their exam. 

One by one, each soldier submitted themselves before the commanding officer, who looked at their answers unlike the way he did the first finisher. There was a bit of discussion, even more personal introductions before the entire platoon was staring at him trying to finish his exam. By this time, Chang was standing next to him, making sure his eyes didn’t wander again. 

He did finish eventually, just before lunch. When he stood up, the whole platoon clapped save for the officers who’d been waiting long enough. Winner did not look annoyed at least. 

“This is meant to be an intelligence unit, Barton.” Simply stated by him, it sounded much like an insult. Winner finally placed his feet back down on the floor and adjusted his seat. He stared at him then, resting his chin on his palm with his elbow on the table. He thought he heard whistles. “But you didn’t give up.” 

At lunch, they sat together on one long table, the newly formed platoon. The officers were off somewhere in their own cafeteria. 

“So, is it true? Is Lieutenant Chang the _same_ Lieutenant Chang that finished off General Khushrenada?” 

“The one and only.” 

“So, that’s why he got promoted! He’s still young. I was assuming he’d lead the platoon. But a captain? Shouldn’t he be off somewhere with a bigger unit?” 

“You think he’s too young that they had to stick him with a smaller platoon?” 

A small group of soldiers a bit older than them approached their table. Their spokesperson, it seemed, had a few things to say. 

“I see this is Winner’s new ‘platoon’,” he said while motioning quotation marks on the word platoon. “Looks like they finally did it, gave that wimp a promotion and gave him a bunch of guys to march to their deaths. He’ll make a fine second lieutenant—” 

“Captain,” Trowa interrupted in his usual, quiet voice. “_Captain_ Winner.” 

This seemed to surprise not only the adversary group but the rest of the occupants of the cafeteria. Trowa deduced that the members of his new platoon were put together from different locations as they all seemed surprised about his reputation too. 

“Might as well have killed him off skipping that many ranks.” 

Maxwell made his appearance at the opportune moment, appearing as if out of nowhere with his hair now neatly cut to the nape of his neck. Not only did he not fight back about the hair, it looked as if he embraced the defeat whole-heartedly. 

“I hear he was the reason why Lieutenant Chang even had the chance to go at Khushrenada,” he chimed in. He placed his tray at the end of the table and sat. Half the group didn’t recognize him and assumed him a stranger. 

“Lieutenant only to Winner is an insult to Chang,” someone spat. Chang was as revered as Winner was reviled it seemed. 

“Ah, yes, the true mastermind behind the operation.” The spokesman again. “You soldiers should know that it came with insubordination _and insanity_ of the highest order. So, I guess we’re now dependent on that dangerous brain to win the war.” 

Silence. Trowa thought it was an ominous warning. 

“Don’t be convinced to do anything he says, boys and token gal,” he concluded. “...without him showing you that he can do a single push-up.” 

Laughter followed before they were left alone. It took only that long for Maxwell to scarf down his food and return his tray. He motioned with a finger to his watch from across the room as a signal for them to hurry. Their platoon immediately stood to get rid of their trays and return on time. No one was willing to test just how true the insanity rumors were. 

“The goal,” the captain explained when they’d reconvened. “…is to end this war.” 

Okay, now Trowa believed he was indeed out of his mind. The war, which was still unnamed, had been going on for generations. Who was to say that it was their generation that was going to end it? It didn’t end with Khushrenada’s death and Khushrenada was thought to be the be-all and end-all. Who was to say that the war would end at all? He looked around. The rest of them thought so too, save for Maxwell who was hanging on his captain’s every word like it was prophecy. 

“And I promise you that all my subordinates will survive.” 

Chang didn’t even blink, which meant that he was in on it too and which also meant that he believed a hundred percent of what was coming out of that mouth. 

There were more than a few mouths agape by the time their meeting ended. Nothing the captain said had been realistic, not the goal, not the promise, not the crazy plans he laid down. If there was any doubt in their group at lunch, that doubt was even more prominent now, but nobody dared comment on it. 

It was an early finish to the day so Trowa chose to dump his duffel in his shared room without sharing introductions with his new roommate. A quick perusal of the room’s tags identified the roommate as A.H. Nair, also of his platoon. Trowa decided that Nair could have his pick of the bunks. The nuisance of ending up in the top bunk was only a mild inconvenience. Now was the time for exploring. 

He walked down the dormitory’s hallways before climbing out a window unnoticed. Skipping across a few balconies, he jumped and landed on a clothesline, swiping a hung jacket in the process. It was clean but not pressed. It would be unbecoming of a soldier of higher rank. He dropped it off at the next clothesline he came across and jumped into the window of the officer’s building. As luck would have it, he landed at the laundry room where a few people were cleaning the officers’ uniforms. He pulled a perfectly pressed jacket off a hanger and put it on. Perfect fit. He was arranging his new clothes in front of a full-length mirror when someone commented directly to him. 

“Ain’t it scary, the ghosts they have around here? The clothes I’ve been ironing keep on disappearing.” 

He nodded. The person looked back at his associates and when he looked back at the mirror, Trowa was gone. Trowa though he heard a horrified squeak. He shrugged. 

Passing the wider corridors and much more swanky accommodations, Trowa delved into a room or two, surveying a lieutenant’s room, a general’s suite and the standard medical ward before deciding to swipe a pin off a major’s unprotected belongings. He got a few greetings here and there and at least one salute from a nervous, unranked soldier. Two candy bars of the foreign, imported variety were in his pockets by the time he made it to the top of the building. It was open-air out there and the parapet was only tall enough to keep you from falling over. He thought he’d be alone. 

Here, it seemed, was where all the smokers converged, all officers. There was about two groups of people and the rest were by their lonesome selves. Trowa gratefully accepted a cigarette offered but didn’t light it. He passed a rather nice-looking baluster and ran his hand on the curves and ridges of an intricate design. This was an old building, probably from before the war. He was surprised it still existed. Buildings these days were built to be functional and nothing more. 

Putting the cigarette on his lips as if he were going to light it, he rounded a corner and came face to face with his commanding officer. Busted, and on the first day. He’d never been caught this quickly before. 

If Winner was surprised, he didn’t show it, simply picked the cigarette off his mouth and threw it in a nearby disposal unit. 

“Smoking kills,” he said, like an advisory at the end of a cigarette commercial, yet he sucked on his cig, drawing a breath and holding it before releasing it into the space deliberately away from his ill-disciplined subordinate. “Second-hand smoke is bad for your health,” he added before pushing the remaining three-quarters of his butt at the top of the bin then disposing it. 

Like a child, he grabbed Trowa’s hand and firmly pulled him away from the roof, descending steps to the inside of the building. When they were inside, he let go, not saying anything as he walked down the corridors. With no orders given, Trowa followed him all the way to his room. He wasn’t invited in, but Trowa slipped in right behind his captain before the door closed. 

It was one of the nicer rooms he’d visited, with a small living area and a balcony overlooking the grounds. There were no pictures on the wall, no paintings, only barren walls and barely any belongings as if he’d just moved in. But he didn’t, because there were no boxes to unpack, no things strewn about to fix. Everything was in proper order, even the matching cups lined up straight and facing only one direction on a cupboard. The place smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. 

“Tell me, _Major_ Barton,” the captain spoke as if waiting for him to satisfy his curiosity before speaking. “What kind of discipline are you expecting if you are at all?” 

Trowa did not respond. He wasn’t scared. He’d seen it all – food denial, extra duty, docked pay, confinement; heck, even public shaming. Then again, he’d never been caught impersonating an officer. 

Winner turned away from him. 

“I don’t know if I should be angry or impressed.” 

“Angry,” Trowa supplied, because what he did would also get Winner in trouble. Considering Winner’s already bad reputation, he really wasn’t doing him any favors. 

“Are you telling me what to do, _Private_, and without asking me if you may make a statement?” 

Okay. Angry it was then. 

“No, sir.” 

Winner was still facing away from him, consequently facing _into_ the sunset. He shone, Trowa though, with the last rays of the sun bouncing off his light hair, hair that tapered neatly down the nape of his neck. His neck was long and skinny, with back not at all broad but broad enough now that he had his hands behind his back. 

“It could be to our advantage,” the captain murmured, sounding mostly as if he was conjuring plans. “I’ve heard of it, but to witness it up close…” 

So, he’d been caught even before he’d made it to the roof. Trowa wondered how long he’d been watching him, how far back he’d been tracked. It unnerved him in a foreign way and excited him all the same. 

The rational part of his brain told him to stand back and await his punishment, but his more basal instincts encouraged him to throw this assignment away and be shipped off to the polar regions, because that was where he was going to end up if he touched his commanding officer. But right now, north or south pole didn’t sound so bad at all. 

He took slow steps toward his captain and when he was close enough that he could feel his heat and smell the acrid remnants of smoke, he placed a kiss on the back of his neck, on the slight bump that protruded from an otherwise smooth plane. This time, Winner was caught by surprise. Sucking in a breath, he tensed the tiniest bit. 

As if willing to test his limits, Trowa gently bit at the side of his neck next then licked, his hands going up to the side of his shoulders to hold him in place. He did it again on the other side, then lower, down his collar. When he found no more space to conquer, he turned him around. 

Trowa didn’t dare check the expression on his face, just moved to unbutton his shirt and when most of the buttons were undone, pull the shirt out of his pants. Winner didn’t stop him, nor did he encourage it. He stood rigid, unsure and finally acquiescent when Trowa pulled him to the bedroom and pushed him to the bed. 

“Fuck it,” he thought he saw Winner mouth. His upper body was resting on his elbows, his chest exposed to the dying rays of the sun. Trowa crawled on top of him and Winner kissed him, hard. There was a bit of wrestling with clothes and limbs and positioning, but there was an unspoken rule that they should be quiet, because their neighbors were all officers and Trowa should never have been there. 

The next unspoken rule was that they should be quick, because supper was soon, and he was expected to show up on time. He managed to get a hold of lotion, slicked them both up before he flipped Winner over and entered. A louder than expected grunt escaped the one below him and Trowa realized that he was too tight, and they were not quite ready. He pulled away only partly, applied even more lotion before slowly slipping back in with labor. The difference was minimal. Winner smothered his face on a pillow and gripped the sheets by his head. Trowa considered pulling away. 

“Continue,” Winner ordered despite his obvious discomfort, relaxing somewhat but continuing his grip. His pillow partially drowned out whatever sounds he made. Under time pressure, Trowa was quick to look for both their releases, reaching in between Winner’s stomach and the mattress to give him attention, but Winner swatted the hand away. He came with a grunt, his face buried in the juncture between Winner’s neck and shoulder. Winner didn’t ask for more than that, abandoning the bed and what could have been a release of his own. 

He watched as Winner stood, putting his pants on and shrugging into a shirt before opening his drawer to a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Fleeing to the balcony, he attempted to light up a cigarette with shaky fingers. He failed twice before getting it on the third try. An unstable breath was audible as he sucked in the smoke, but he didn’t get to keep it in his lungs long before it came out in little coughs. His other hand had a strong grip on the balcony railing as if trying to hold himself steady. Each puff was taken with a tremble. His body shivered in the dark of the first hours of night. That was the way Trowa left him that night.


	2. Target Practice

Today, it was a test of marksmanship and the captain had them lined up some 500 yards away from small targets, a step up from 200 and then 300 yards. Trowa knew he was not faring well, and he had to admit that it was exactly because of a lack of trying on his part. He knew how to shoot a man and couldn’t be bothered.

“Excellent, Nair,” the captain complemented, Nair being his roommate, the same roommate who kept asking him where he was before dinner the day before. A convenient excuse and a sweet bribe had been easily supplied.

Excellent indeed, Trowa noted with some detachment. He was crouched on the ground, not even looking at his target as he shot and missed. In contrast, his roommate did not miss one target and hit the furthest ones from him. At this point, Nair had a stack of bricks tied to the barrel of his gun to add weight. With a score of 350, he was well within expert range. You could have put a target a thousand yards away and he would have still probably hit it.

“Maxwell, not bad.” Their smartest member was within sharpshooter range and didn’t fail to let everyone in the vicinity know that despite not being the best, he was damn well better than almost everyone else at second place.

Meanwhile, their endlessly optimistic leader was under the shade of a tent, throwing praises as Chang made the rounds inspecting their form. Chang snorted when he missed again. He didn’t fail to notice Trowa’s eyes everywhere but at the target in front of him. “Now is not the time to plan your next escape,” Chang reprimanded.

“Barton.” That one didn’t sound complementary at all. Winner left the shade to stand next to his crouched form. “Safety,” he ordered and Trowa immediately put the safety on.

“Any tips for Barton? Nair?”

Nair shrugged. “It’s hard to explain. I guess I see things in slow-mo.”

“It’s not even the form, captain,” Maxwell voiced as he’d been the one practically putting his arms around him moments ago to adjust his hold on the rifle. He’d even pushed Trowa’s chin toward the target when he was caught looking at a squirrel stuffing an acorn into its mouth. “It’s a lost cause.”

“Barton,” the captain started again. “I am not the best target shooter myself, but this is,” he paused, motioning for his lieutenant to finish the sentence. “Appalling,” Chang helpfully supplied before sneering. For the first time, Trowa wondered if he was still fit for combat. He was sure he could fire a gun, but to concentrate on one, small target, it was just too troublesome.

Winner pulled the rifle off him and went back to the tent to pick up a shotgun. “Try this,” he suggested.

No dice. There could have been a target two feet in front of him and Trowa wouldn’t hit it, but Winner didn’t give up and picked another firearm. One after another, he was given a different kind of weapon until the entire group was watching him fail at every piece. The group was ragging on him relentlessly with only their lone female Schbeiker trying to be helpful as she shouted out some tips. Winner almost picked up a rocket launcher, almost, but decided against it. Who knew where that rocket would end up?

Finally, they ended up with the last weapon on option and Winner looked like he was praying to the heavens over a machine gun before he mounted it on a tripod and pushed him toward it. Fully automatic. Trowa unlocked the safety and fired. He didn’t think he finished his breath before all twelve targets were hit.

This time, there were loud whistles of admiration. Now _that_ was Trowa’s kind of weapon. _That_ was the kind of thing that kept his attention.

“Nair, what happened?” the captain asked for confirmation.

Slow-mo couldn’t believe it either. He whistled again. “I can’t explain it, but it looked like he hit each target all at once with maybe a bullet or two wasted.”

Winner laughed, actually laughed as he mussed his hair in approval. They tried it again with differently spaced targets and then on a run through. At one point, they had him hold two different weapons in each hand and that worked too. Schbeiker hung some grenades on his belt for good measure and had him go through a simulation with multiple targets. With rapid fire and explosions everywhere, everyone seemed to be in good spirits.

Winner couldn’t stop laughing as Chang dutifully and silently followed right behind him, berating him every few minutes with ‘we can’t be wasteful’ or ‘this is going to cost you’ or ‘they will give you hell at the next meeting.’

Winner responded to him with a pat on his back every now and then before finally saying, “small price to pay for this kind of morale.”

“There is a war raging on out there.”

“Doesn’t mean we have to keep on acting like victims to it. Lighten up.”

When all their resources were exhausted and Maxwell was on the ground rolling in laughter, Trowa stopped and stood there, dropping all the weapons they’d placed on him on the ground. He’d never had that much fun before and a slight upward curl creeped at the side of his lips.

“I suppose I’m going to have to request for more bullets,” Winner said, putting his hands on his hips. He surveyed his platoon with pride as the beacon of reason behind him frowned and stared at his superior officer with worry.

Before they left for lunch, the captain pulled him aside with a quick word of advice. “We’ll do it your way,” he said. “But remember, a single bullet can be the difference between saving a life and losing it.”

In the afternoon, he slipped away from combined combat training, saluting at least two officers along the way. The ‘at ease, soldier’ gave him freedom to walk past swaths of other trainees, some of which included those in his platoon. Maxwell, partnered up with Schbeiker, looked at him with a surprised blink, followed by a long stare but otherwise did not alert the higher-ups to his truant desertion. All it took was a swipe of a hat from a non-trainee. Walking up the building that housed the offices two steps at a time, he went past busy individuals in and out of several rooms.

“Delivery for Captain Winner, sir,” he alerted a distracted lieutenant the same moment he picked up the top box off a poor private’s stack of boxes. Neither of them noticed him taking it.

“One floor up. Three-oh-four.” The officer didn’t even look at him.

Humming while he dropped off the box in front of door two-oh-one, the office where the box was_ supposed_ to be delivered, he put his hands in his pockets and went up another floor, again taking two steps at a time. Three-oh-four was not hard to find. He knocked.

“Enter.”

Lieutenant Chang didn’t even afford him a glance as he handed a folder to Captain Winner.

“Barton, I don’t even know if you should be reprimanded or rewarded.” Even Chang had to question his own judgment. Winner, who was used to it the second time around, didn’t even look up from his work.

“It’ll be an asset until it starts grating on your nerves. So, what do you think, Wufei?”

Trowa didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone call Chang by any other name. Most people were probably too scared to attempt that. Chang didn’t seem bothered, convincing Trowa that this war hero had nothing but respect for his comrade in arms. That, or he feared him.

“For reconnaissance, yes, she’s made for it.” Winner had Schbeiker’s folder open. “Although Barton is making a better argument right now,” Chang conceded rather grudgingly.

Winner looked up at him from his desk.

“Take that complement and treasure it, Barton,” his commanding officer said, pointing at him with the pink end of a pencil. “The lieutenant doesn’t hand them out so easily.”

“Sir, may I ask a question?”

“Yes, Barton, what is it?”

“We never got the results of the… exam.”

Chang scoffed as if that morning’s marksmanship mischief was already too much for one day. “It’s nothing to do with correct answers, Barton. It’s a personality test.”

Winner nodded in agreement. “Although there _is_ a correct answer.”

“Maxwell.” Trowa wanted that explained. It took him mere minutes to Trowa’s hours. It cemented Maxwell as their loudmouth Brainiac.

“The keyword is ‘a’. There was only one correct answer. Maxwell started from the back.”

“I—”

“Slogged through pages of questions, yes.”

Trowa felt duped and idiotic at the same time.

Chang handed Winner the next folder and opened it to a picture of Maxwell, a grinning picture of Maxwell with his once long hair – a quick reminder that Winner also had that man under his control.

“For revenge?” Chang suggested, leaning in to check the contents of the folder.

“No. For justice,” Winner said as he flipped a page over. “Justice for dead guardians and compatriots. He scored high on everything, could have gone anywhere.”

‘But he specifically requested to be transferred here,’ was not voiced but understood. Maxwell seemed to know something the rest of the platoon didn’t. Trowa stared at his officers looking over the file. They seemed competent, but not competent enough to end a war if that was what Maxwell was hoping for. For one, they didn’t have age on their side. Age trumped aptitude among their ranks. He wondered if Winner really did have the skill and more importantly, _the stomach_, for it. The whole ‘coming back alive’ deal was a dead giveaway to his out of place naivete.

Winner wrote a few things on Maxwell’s file before reaching his hand out to Chang for the next. Trowa’s face appeared next when they opened the folder. His typically aloof, dead stare greeted them. Winner rested his chin on a knuckle.

“Ah, yes. Barton. The stunner.” He looked up. Chang did too. Trowa stared back at them before delivering a noncommittal shrug. “Barton, would you please show the lieutenant a more interesting way of getting on top of this chair?”

Trowa nodded before jumping and landing with quiet ease at the top rail of the empty chair. The chair didn’t wobble despite taking on an uneven weight distribution and the rest of their surroundings remained undisturbed. Chang, if even possible, looked flabbergasted. “You were not kidding about the clothesline. That defies the laws of nature.”

Winner nodded. “But he can’t concentrate if his life depended on it.”

There was a knock on the door, followed by a surprised yelp upon finding him where he was. Chang was called to another office and Trowa abandoned his perch on the chair. Left alone with his captain, he continued to watch him do his work. The scratch of the pencil’s tip on paper, the flipping of pages, and the occasional fizz of the artificial fluorescent lighting above were the only sounds coming out of the office. Winner did not speak though this was the first time they’d been alone since the night before.

“Sir, permission to speak,” Trowa chanced.

“Permission granted.”

“I can do better.”

“Of course, Barton,” Winner said without looking up at him. “Of course.”

That night at the officer’s living quarters, he was a newly transferred officer checking out his new lodgings. The person in charge handed him a key along with a map of the building. He noted the cafeteria and the medical ward, which he’d already been through, and marked on paper all the rooms he’d visited. It was only a quarter of the place, but there was only one room he was interested in visiting.

Tracing his steps back from the rooftop the day before, he arrived promptly at his intended destination and knocked. Winner opened the door without asking who it was.

“_Major_,” he said with no humor and stepped aside. Trowa wondered when he’d get tired of it. He slipped in just before the door closed in on him. It was obvious Winner wasn’t going to wait for him to get all the way in.

There was tea brewing on a cup today and a kettle on the stove. But there was only one cup, which meant that Winner wasn’t expecting him that night, at least not after dinner so close to curfew.

“No. Not with a time limit,” Winner voiced, sitting on a dining chair to finish his tea. It looked piping hot when he sipped it.

Trowa had left a filled duffel on his bunkbed and a candy bar on his roommate’s bunk. Tonight, there was no time limit, but he didn’t say that. He emptied his pockets of condoms and _proper_ lubrication taken from the medical ward he’d purposely passed through before arriving. It had been displayed in a basket with varieties of all sorts. Trowa picked through it with careful thought as he straightened a sign right above it that read ‘Be safe but procreate! We still need babies!’ There was a cute caricature of a swaddled baby being carried by a stork right underneath the words. Nobody wanted babies these days if it meant they were going to grow up to be expendable soldiers.

Trowa sat across from him, not attempting to make himself a cup of tea to join, but he did pick up a package labeled ‘ribbed for your pleasure’ and that made Winner raise an eyebrow. To make his point clearer, he picked up the bottle next and pointed to the words that read ‘strawberry flavored for maximum taste and ease’. Winner cracked then, sputtering his tea.

There was no sunset this time, only the yellowish illumination of warm, glowing bulbs that accentuated the fiery blue eyes watching him with rapt concentration. On the previously starched sheets Winner reclined with shirt partially open and trousers down to his knees. He looked fascinated as Trowa took him into his mouth and cupped swollen testicles. It smelled slightly of the bright-red fruit the bottle advertised but tasted nothing like it. Trowa licked his length, placing a palm over his stomach to feel the tiny trembles in his muscles. He couldn’t help but imagine the unvoiced cries in that engrossed expression on his face that he would have probably let out had their activities been less risky. Winner felt so alive, pulsating against his tongue and cheeks as he took him in. And when he came, he looked rapturous, biting his knuckles until the skin surrounding the gnashing teeth turned as red as the promised strawberries.

When moments passed after Winner lay sated on the mattress, making no indication of wanting to go any further, Trowa reluctantly arranged Winner’s clothes back into some sort of decency only to be stopped as the trousers he was pulling up were instead kicked completely out of the way.

“We’re not done here,” he was told with Winner holding up a condom.

Trowa needed no further hints as he kissed the life out of his partner, pulling the pillow out from underneath his torso to pin him flat on the mattress. He pulled his own clothes out of the way before finishing to unbutton Winner’s shirt, pushing aside the shoulder marks on the straps of Winner’s uniform, urgently reminding him that this was a captain, he was a private and this kind of activity was probably discussed in some sort of rulebook. Add to the fact that they had no plans nor capabilities of getting pregnant, this was probably something he should have been worried about. But if his captain ever worried about their arrangement, he didn’t show it as he tugged at his flesh with zero reluctance.

Trowa didn’t need much coaxing as he was more than turned on watching his lover use their much-too-sweet smelling, artificially flavored lubrication to prepare himself for intercourse ‘with ease’ as advertised. He slipped the ribbed condom over himself, making sure to liberally apply their strawberry liquid to make sure that this time would be much more pleasant than the last. And it didn’t disappoint if the look on Winner was anything to go by. He was biting on his arm instead of his knuckles this time with saliva escaping the side of his mouth as he struggled to keep his vocal cords in check. The silent bounce of the pillows and the barely audible creak of a protesting headboard were probably louder than they were.

Expecting to finish much sooner than he anticipated, Trowa made sure to pump Winner as he drove into him. And the result was nothing less than magnificent as Winner shut his eyes tight and let his body’s reflexive reactions take over. A tear rolled down the side of his face and he whimpered. It was the breathtaking sight that pushed Trowa to completion as he bit into his partner’s shoulder, reaching his own climax.

Trowa almost expected a ‘well done’ – almost, because the captain had been easily throwing those around this morning, but he settled for the heavy arm thrown over his back. After a few moments, Winner gently rolled him to the side, reaching into his drawer for his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Once again, he dressed himself and fled to his balcony, taking a couple of short, firm draws to light his cancer stick before pulling smoke into his mouth. He held it in then inhaled a bit before leaning backwards on the balcony railing and throwing his head back. The smoke blowing out of his puckered lips came out uneven as the man chuckled into the night air. Trowa doubted his capacity to leave him alone this time around.


	3. The Defector

“We’ve known each other for over a month. That’s a lifetime these days. Call me Duo.”

Duo Maxwell clapped him on the back in camaraderie and Trowa nodded to that. He was about to offer his first name in reciprocation, but his new friend was already ahead on that.

“So, Trowa, care to tell me how you get away with _everything_? I’ve seen you walking through restricted areas like it was nothing. Nobody is saying anything, and I mean _anything_, about you being where you aren’t supposed to be. Even Lt. Chang didn’t blink an eye when you passed by him at the weapons depot. I’ve been kicked out of that place a hundred times already and I have skills, let me tell you.”

“Blend in. Don’t hide,” Trowa suggested. He was going to approach Duo eventually to ask some questions after their latest mission had ended, but this turn of events worked better in his favor. They’d gotten back early, leaving some time to wander before debriefing. No need to go to Duo when Duo was coming to him. “Walk with me.”

Trowa nicked a clearance card off passing security personnel and swiped it on the first door they came across. Duo seemed awed as they entered a hanger containing aircraft he did not recognize. They were probably new and top secret.

“What are we doing here?”

Trowa shrugged. Nothing, really. He just wanted to show him the ropes. He picked a wrench off a toolbox and placed it on top of a hand reaching out. The mechanic yelled a ‘thanks’ without sparing them a glance. Passing some open lockers, he took a blue jumpsuit, handing Duo one before slipping into another. “Captain Winner, what can you tell me about him?” he said while zipping up.

“The cap? He wasn’t born around here. He was born on the other side of the border.”

“Enemy border?”

“Yeah. Look, I heard he was disowned or something, from some super rich family that was pissed he switched sides.”

Trowa nodded. They went up some steps into a corner filled with various rooms. He peeked into a couple of doors, finding no interest in any of them before unwittingly landing his hand on a latch. He tended to be lucky that way. He looked at Duo and pulled. It was a secret door. Naturally, his companion, who also seemed to be a thrill-seeker, entered the room without being prompted. He’d been so quiet you’d forget that he was the same loudmouth who was talking to him just moments ago. It was like his presence completely disappeared and that was when Trowa decided he would make a good partner for his ensuing escapades.

Trowa motioned to the events going on below their floor level. A colonel, who seemed to be the one in charge, was instructing a few men who were busy typing away in front of a few screens. It looked like the R&D department was running some shady research.

“Run the simulation again,” the colonel said as he looked at a man right in the middle of a dark room, strapped to a chair with a visor that went all the way down past his eyes. He seemed to be struggling and it sounded like he was gurgling liquid from his mouth. “Faster.” The feed on the screen showed combat in what looked like outer space conditions. The person strapped down was hypothetically being attacked from all angles and it didn’t look like he was doing well. The flashing lights in the dark room made the scene look eerie.

“Mental breakdown imminent,” one of the people in front of a computer screen warned while continuing to type away. “Complete disintegration from reality in five, four, three—"

“Fine. That’s enough.” The colonel looked frustrated, running a hand through his salt and pepper locks. “Our women are doing better at these,” he concluded, disengaging the wrist locks of their experimental volunteer or rather, voluntold. “The problem is, we don’t have enough of them.” He put a bucket in front of the poor man and he immediately grabbed it and vomited into the metal tin. It sounded substantial from where they stood. The colonel coughed a few times. “Discharge him and send him back to his family.”

Trowa thought he saw the letters Z, E, R and O flash on the screen before Duo abruptly pulled him away from the room and back out into the hanger.

“No use in getting caught right now,” he said before reassuring him. “But we are definitely going back in there to investigate.”

Trowa liked his chances at not getting caught, but he nodded to show that he agreed with Duo’s assessment. This was something that looked like it shouldn’t be brought up with the officers in their platoon. At least, not if they wanted to scrutinize this secret lair more without being reprimanded.

“What’s the deal with Khushrenada and Lt. Chang and what’s that got to do with the captain?” Trowa brought up next as they passed an empty corridor and entered another set of doors that lead to the military’s stockpile of what looked like used parts. Duo picked up a large metal screw, some scrap metal, bits of breadboard and a few copper wires, pocketing them in his temporary uniform. He sucked on his lower lip, looking as if he was considering what he was about to say next. He checked around the vicinity before responding.

“I heard the lieutenant had wanted a go at Khushrenada for a long time before it happened. I know many people wanted to off that philosophical asshole, but Chang had this deep hatred for him, and the captain helped him get to him and that’s the reason why he follows him around like a loyal dog. He owes him one, I guess.” It was all said in one breath.

Trowa put the cover back on a box Duo had opened and slightly opened the one he had closed for good measure. That was how he remembered the scene to look like before they’d disturbed it.

“What’s this about the insanity thing and the insubordination?” he asked next.

“You can’t get straight to Khushrenada on a lower rank without insubordination and I’m not sure whatever that insanity claim is, but I heard he’s got to take pills for something. When he’s angry, which looks like it rarely happens, he goes psycho. Maybe that’s just a personality issue. I’m not sure.”

“But they promoted him?”

Duo tapped an index finger to the side of his forehead a couple of times for emphasis. “Fucking genius. Once a century or something, so they’ve got no choice but to allow him a leadership role. But he’s also from the other side, so even if they can’t trust him completely, they can’t let the other side have him either.”

When it didn’t look like there was anything of interest further down, they worked their way back to where they came from. Better follow the already traveled path than get lost and end up in another secret lair.

“Is that why you do whatever he tells you to, because he’s a genius?” Trowa questioned his companion. Deep down, he was still bitter about the hair and he didn’t know why. The hair was never his. Maybe it was the principle of it.

“He’s going to end it and that’s a promise. I’ve followed around tons of flukes and this one isn’t even close to failing.”

Trowa bypassed a set of stairs by jumping to the bottom. Duo made an appreciative whistle before going down the steps quietly. It sounded like feathers, if feathers made sounds, the way he moved.

“What makes you so sure about that?”

“He got to Khushrenada. That’s the biggest deal in this war since the moment Khushrenada was born and that took like a thousand years or something. You know no one’s ever beaten Khushrenada’s maneuvers before, don’t you?”

“What if he’s the next Khushrenada?”

Maxwell gave him a disbelieving look then attempted to toss back a length of hair that was no longer there.

“You mean like a benevolent leader with pretty speeches, but it turns out those words are distracting you from all the evil going on behind the scenes?”

“Exactly.”

“How dare you! Captain Winner wouldn’t hurt a thing.” He sure looked like it, but Trowa was sure that underneath that adorable face was a menacing authority that annihilated Khushrenada’s forces in a single strike.

“You know,” Trowa suggested as they stepped out of their overalls. Meanwhile, Duo was stashing the pilfered materials into his pockets. “Khushrenada used to announce from memory the name of every single soldier that died for his cause. Sounds like a captain who promises to bring all his troops back home alive but is actually sweet-talking you _after_ switching from the other side.”

“We’re not on the same page, are we?” Duo responded with a narrowed look. “You think he’s evil incarnate 2.0.” No questions. Duo had made his conclusions.

Trowa was about to protest and explain that he just went a little too far playing devil’s advocate when the same colonel from the secret lair appeared in the locker rooms. He could feel Maxwell tense almost immediately although Trowa stayed calm. Showing any other reaction would give them away.

The colonel, M.F. Brigg according to Trowa’s perusal of his tag, looked at them with both surprised and weary eyes before something else kicked in and that thing that kicked in, Trowa did not like. He had the knack for sensing a lecher when he saw one. Almost instinctively, he moved in front of Duo to block the larger man’s view of his companion.

“You boys still working on the repairs?” he questioned. Although Trowa did not know what that referred to, he answered anyway, before Maxwell could blurt anything out. Now was the time for Duo’s stealth, not his mouth.

“Yes, sir.”

“You know, after a long, hard day,” the colonel continued before standing what felt like two inches too close to Trowa. “Don’t you boys like letting lose? Which platoon are you from?”

The older man reached his hand out to run his fingers on the fall of Trowa’s hair. The man could have been fifty feet away and he’d still emanate the vibes of a pervert. Thankfully, Duo was as fast as he was loud when he wanted to be, yanking him away while spouting off a long-winded excuse that didn’t sound at all plausible but was just too exhausting to argue with. The colonel didn’t have time to get a word in before they were gone, Duo running while pulling his arm. They were huffing by the time they made it out of the building.

And just when they thought they were safe; a familiar strait-laced military man came in from behind them.

“Maxwell! Barton! When did you get back? Off to the debriefing before you’re late.”

Duo looked like he jumped ten feet in the air in surprise. He definitely needed practice in denying culpability.

“Yes, sir,” they replied at the same time.

“And Maxwell, hand over that trash sticking out from all over your uniform. It’s unbecoming of a soldier from the fourth.”

Duo huffed, handing over the items he thought he’d managed to smuggle out of the building and Chang took them without inspecting what they were. “Alright, back to camp. Double time.”

Trowa felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end when he thought he saw Col. Brigg look at them from a window. Now he knew which platoon they belonged to. That would certainly be trouble.

Four push-ups. The captain was up to four push-ups, which meant that they’d gone on three missions so far. The team clapped when he’d finished the fourth.

“Alright. Everybody back alive. Well done.”

It had become tradition. Before their very first mission, someone had dared suggest their captain do a push-up before they headed out as the team just couldn’t trust someone who couldn’t do at least one push-up. Amused rather than insulted, the captain had agreed to do _two_ but only after they all came back alive. And they all did and on every occasion after that, the captain had promised to do one extra push-up. Now they were up to four.

“That mission was a trap, captain.”

“Ah.” Winner didn’t deny it. “But we do what we’re told, trap or no trap.” He pulled up some photographs on screen.

“They set us up for failure on purpose,” Duo voiced. He’d been the most annoyed when they showed up to extract no one, only to be subject to heavy artillery. Trowa released heavy artillery of his own and that was that. Duo kissed him hard on the cheek when all their adversaries were down, but still alive. Winner gave specific instructions to incapacitate, not kill.

“Failure is relative.”

By this time, everyone was aware that the entire military camp was against their platoon, sticking them with the dirty, risky work that assured no glories. Winner was tolerant of their situation, but it was starting to get on the nerves of at least some of them. As if sensing the unease, their captain attempted to appease them.

“This is a plus on our record. And we’ve secured the location. Yes, pointless location to them, but we will use this to our advantage.” He pointed out a few spots on the photo on the screen, explaining part two to their mission. It would commence as soon as they got clearance, which Trowa thought was highly unlikely. They’d probably be sent off somewhere else where they would have to start from scratch.

Trowa didn’t care to discuss mission details that night as he sat on Winner’s bed, burying his nose in his captain’s cold, wet hair. Today, it smelled like standard issue shampoo, not the smell of smoke that usually permeated the blond locks. It tickled his nose as he tightened his hold around narrow shoulders.

“I concede.”

Tonight, they were playing chess on the mattress though Winner had to mirror his moves as they were both on the same side of the bed with Winner being trapped in his arms. Trowa kissed the back of his neck, letting his lips linger on the little lump protruding from the otherwise flat scruff.

“Shut up. We just started.”

Trowa already knew how this would end if Duo’s earlier claim was any indication of the man’s capabilities. Winner probably did too, but Trowa supposed he didn’t mind helping his captain figure out his next strategy and this match probably helped.

“You’re cold,” he said, while making a move on the board. Afterwards, his clasped hands moved to a more comfortable position on the captain’s lap. He liked his blond chilly from the cold showers. At least he didn’t stink of cigarettes.

“There are no hot showers here at night, either.” Winner explained that the situation in the officer’s quarters was the same as it was at the barracks. Hot showers were only available in the mornings.

Trowa buried his nose at the juncture of Winner’s neck and shoulder, enjoying the clean scent as much as he could before his partner would once again flee to the balcony to smoke cigarettes.

“I hear you’re from the other side,” he inquired, watching as Winner took one of his pieces. He nodded but didn’t explain further.

“Why did you switch?” Trowa prodded because he was interested in finding out how lucky he was to land this miracle. Had Winner been in the opposing side, the chances of them meeting would have been limited considering their ranks.

“I don’t believe in either side’s philosophy or rationalization for the war.” Trowa made his next move, which his opponent quickly countered. He’d lost another piece before he knew it. “I just picked the side that would help me end the war faster.”

“The side with no kings or queens?” Trowa looked at his queen piece laying on the sheets. That had been a few moves back. He wondered why Winner was not attacking more aggressively.

“The side with no megalomaniac.”

“He’s gone now.” Trowa didn’t add that despite that, things were still the same although the momentum did slightly shift in their direction.

“That was never going to be the endgame. That was just the start. Besides, they pop up like weeds.” But admittedly no one as bad as Khushrenada – yet.

Trowa wanted to ask how much longer it would go on for, but he stopped himself short of going through with his question. This arrangement wasn’t so bad. Despite being in constant danger of dying, he was spending a good amount of time with the man in his arms. But at the back of his mind, it nagged at him – the knowledge that having that brain that ended Trowa’s last chance of moving any other chess piece would mean greater risk. Winner would take on greater risk because he strived to and knew exactly how to do it and Trowa had no means of stopping it.

“Checkmate.”

And one day, he feared that if Winner ever met his match, he would be on the other end of that checkmate.


End file.
